


Woke Up In A Safe House, Singing

by Sybariticfanfiction (SybariticReyna)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Airachnid is bad at expressing it but yeah, Creepy Fluff, Cuddling, F/F, Fluff, Getting Together, I'm appealing to a very niche demo here and i Know it, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Other, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn Technically, Sort of????, They Heal Together, They Tread A Fine Line Between Creepy And Sappy, Touch-Starved, fem reader - Freeform, sort of enemies to friends to lovers, theyre not rly enemies tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 20:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20730548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SybariticReyna/pseuds/Sybariticfanfiction
Summary: reader is concerningly okay with being autobot bait, Airachnid underestimates how charming humans can be, and they're both more than a little bit touch starved.





	Woke Up In A Safe House, Singing

**Author's Note:**

> this is tagged as non linear bc i think it depends on how yall wanna interpret each sequence and how they mesh. this is a lot less structured than my Soundwave fic but I thought it works well with the spider lady
> 
> reader mentions having a crush on Arcee, whether its unrequited or not is also up to u 
> 
> warnings for vague descriptions of injuries!!! but Nothing Else bc despite the creepy/morally questionable beginnings this is 100% consensual. i dont enjoy or write "dark fics" okay

The Autobots never made you feel like prey. Despite being giants compared to yourself (and especially the children), they lacked that particular _ vibe._

Airachnid has it in spades. 

It was a dumb decision, you know, to follow Arcee and Jack, but you’re a worrier. Arcee’s protective instincts aren’t exactly on par with Ratchet, after all, and Jack is known to be reckless. You’re not quite sure why Optimus decided to make them partners. Arcee needs someone… softer to crack through that grief-ridden shell of hers. Not a teenage boy whose more concerned about looking cool. 

(you admit, sometimes, you think you’d be a better fit, but those’re the selfish and lovesick parts of you talking) 

At the very least, you’re pretty sure they escaped this failure of a recon mission. 

You did not. 

You don’t bother to struggle in earnest, knowing that if her webs can trap Arcee, you, a delicate little organic, don't have a prayer of getting out. Also, maybe, not struggling will give you an edge? 

You’re probably going to need quite a few edges to survive until the Autobots can break you out. Or until she falls madly in love with you, gives up her weird hunting thing, and settles down here on Earth. 

You giggle at the thought. _Clearly_, you’ve been indulging in too many fantasy rom novels. 

(Who can blame you? Having a hopeless crush on the prettiest alien around leaves you… wanting. Sad songs and loving books soothe the ache in your chest) 

You wish you had one of those books now. Or enough mobility to grab the phone in your back pocket. Just… something. You’re bored, waiting around for the ex-con. Ex-Decepticon? You’re pretty sure either one gets the point across. 

Unfortunately, even arguing with yourself over dumb alien linguistics doesn’t keep you occupied for long. Everyone talks about how scared the fly is. Why doesn’t anyone mention how boring it is to be all wrapped up? How despite the very real fear thrumming through your veins, you sorta just want to take a nap? 

It’s not like your kidnapper is gonna mind, right? 

...you’re gonna risk it. 

* * *

You wake up to bright red optics and a sharp smile. 

“Finally awake, little one?” She says, sweet and soft in a way that makes you think of rotten fruit. It's not a good soft. She trails a digit over your cheek, hard enough to sting but not break skin. 

You don’t deign to answer her question. 

She clicks her tongue(? what is the cybertronian word for tongue? You’re pretty sure no one’s mentioned it before. How _a__nnoying_). Tilting your face this way and that, she says, “I know I promised that other organic, Arcee’s new partner, was it? that I’d keep him, but, you’re so _cute_.” 

You know better than to be charmed by a pretty murderer, but in the interest of keeping yourself alive, you choke out, “Thank you.” 

“And such wonderful manners!” She exclaims. “Oh, you’ll do quite nicely in my collection. I’ll save a spot next to you for that wretch, too.” 

You assume she means Arcee, and glance over at her in alarm. “What?” 

She ignores you. “There probably won’t be that much left of her once I’m done tearing her apart. But something to remember her by, at least.” She smiles. 

There… There will be time to dig into that particular remark later. For now, you try, “My manners won’t do you any good if I’m dead, you know.” 

“I suppose not.” She shrugs. “Maybe I’ll keep you alive. See what energon does to your itty bitty frame.” Her hand moves from your face to your neck, and you have to curb your natural flinching response. Sharp claws on one’s neck isn’t exactly ideal, and your hindbrain is screaming _Fight or Flight!! _

“Pretty sure it’d kill me.” You say slowly. 

“Mmm, but when and how? If it kills you immediately, well,” She doesn’t seem too concerned. “But if you can build up a tolerance, it might be beneficial to you, in the long run.” 

That sounds sorta like pseudoscience bullshit, but you’re running out of options. “Wouldn’t it suck if you made the first immortal human? You’d never get rid of me.” 

Her laugh sends shivers down your spine. “That isn’t the word I’d use. Having trophies is good, but…” She lets that sentence hang, smiling benignly. 

She looks pretty when she smiles, although it's a sharp sort of pretty. Like a knife glinting, or shattered glass. 

And you, you know better, but it makes your heart thump. 

Can she feel it? Does she know what it means? Why is the idea so damn exciting? 

She doesn’t give you any answers, but she does cut you down. The webbing that seemed as hard as steel snaps quite easily underneath her clawed digits. The same digits that grab you around the waist with such delicacy you briefly fancy yourself a doll. 

You reach out to steady yourself on her shoulders, and she, blessedly, allows it. She’s sturdy and warm, and you _like_ it. When she tucks you against her chest and begins walking, you could care less where to, so long as you’re pressed up against her. 

_(is it true affection or just touch starvation? the beginnings of a crush or your infatuation with affection rearing its head? how can you tell? do you like her for her or are you using her as a proxy?) _

You… don’t know. 

But you like the sensation of living metal under your cheek as you carefully lay your head against her. She rewards you with a pleased hum, and you like that too. 

You’re still scared. 

Maybe not as much as you should be. 

* * *

You wonder if they miss you. If Arcee misses you. Did they even try to look? Does she thank her lucky stars your distraction allowed her and Jack to escape with nary a scratch? 

Does she think of you at all? 

* * *

If a tree falls in the forest… blah, blah, blah. 

If you flirt with a Decepticon… 

She smiles, and runs her fingers down your side. She laughs when you swat at her and say it tickles, and she looks interested when you say, “Humans are sensitive! Be nice!” 

“I’m sure you are.” She replies. “What other human things should I know?”

There’s… a branch. Many ways to answer, but only two real options. Continue flirting, or deflect. Both have their risks and rewards, but you want to flirt. You’re not really good at it, but you’ll try, dammit. 

“There’s a great many things, my dear spider.” Easiest way to make your intentions clear: heap on the endearments. 

Her optics half close, more like a pleased cat than a spider. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time in the future. In the meantime, you need to eat!” She says it so cheerfully, moving you from your perch in her lap to the desk. “Stay right here.” 

As if you could survive the fall. You look down at the floor wearily. It’s the same dark tiling as the rest of the ship, very impersonal and clinical despite this being your “berthroom”. Airachnid’s own room is directly across from yours, although she refers to it as temporary. The explosion that damaged most of the ship apparently took her original room. _The explosion_ that you thought was a weird noise in your dream. That one. 

As far as temporary rooms go, its a solid _okay_. Size wise is is clearly made for Cybertronians, and you wonder why she’s the sole occupant when the ship was clearly made for a team. 

(does she get lonely too?) 

The decor could use some work. You’ll ask her about it later. Maybe fairy lights or something could brighten it up. It might take a few more than anticipated to ring around the whole room, so maybe just around your headboard? Or one wall? How would Airachnid feel about getting you a vanity and some candles? 

Oh, and ladders, maybe. Then you don’t have to climb up things like a frantic mouse anytime Airachnid isn’t with you. 

As if summoned by that train of thought, she saunters back in with… a smoothie? 

You take the glass from her with a confused smile. “Do you like making human food?” She has a “kitchen” set up, although it looks to be a lab of some sort as well. You’ve only cooked there a handful of times, and only when Airachnid is gone. 

“It is interesting how many different variants and textures there are.” She shrugs daintily. 

“_Variants_?” You repeat, dragging the straw through it. “There’s no energon in this, right?” It doesn’t look like there could be. Energon is rather bright, and this is a pale pink color. Probably raspberries, given the seeds, and peach or something. 

“Of course not. I want to run more tests before that.” She says primly. “My… work with that human organization has given me more information on humans.” 

You glance down at your elbow, at the rectangular silhouette left by the sticky tape used to bandage it. “More blood?” 

“First, I was thinking of setting up one of their obstacle courses to test your strength and such.” 

You don’t know what that’ll achieve, but you shrug. “Sure. I’m not like a soldier for hire like they are though. I mean, I go hiking sometimes?” Not as often since moving to Arizona. You like the desert and the heat, but becoming dehydrated doesn’t sit well with you. 

Airachnid doesn’t respond until you’ve taken a sip of your drink, at which point she flashes a smile and asks, “Good? I wouldn’t want my little pet going hungry.” 

“Very sweet. And I’m not a pet.” You tell her, eyes like steel. 

“You could be, if you wanted to.” She says it… softly, and that sets you more off balance than when she’s harsh and threatening. 

In an effort to maintain your ‘I couldn’t care less’ attitude, you roll your eyes, “And you could use a little more lemon next time.” 

She hums thoughtfully. “Finish that quickly then.” She says, leaning over to push the cup closer. She’s always so touchy, and yet she rarely does it the way you'd like. 

(if you agreed with her, let her call you pet, would she run your digits through your hair? the idea embarresses as much as it appeals to you. what if she just… held you? let you seek comfort and warmth in her embrace?) 

You push those gross mushy feelings down, telling her, “I can’t eat and then immediately do your obstacle course.” 

“No?” Her head tilts curiously. 

“I’d throw up.” 

Her face scrunches up in disgust. “_Ew_.” 

You take a loud sip of your drink. 

“Whatever. As I said, I would need to set the course beforehand. Not that it will be much trouble, seeing as you’re so tiny.” She brings a servo over, brushing your hair back and then down your neck, your shoulder, your side. 

You lean into it nigh instinctively, a quiet noise of contentment coming unbidden from your throat. Not a _moan _by any means, but just as rumbly. 

Airachnid laughs. 

“Shush.” You tell her. 

“I haven’t said anything.” She pauses, looking contemplative. “Don’t humans braid their wiring?” 

“Hair. It’s made of keratin, not metal. And sometimes, yeah.” A weird question, but Airachnid asks a lot of weird questions. How her processor works, you have no fuckin clue. 

But you’d like to, one day. 

* * *

You write. 

It's mostly just notes to yourself -ask for nail polish -remind Airachnid to get more gauze. 

But some of it is of a more… poetic nature. You tuck those under your pillow, embarrassed by the sheer tenderness they contain. You cannot voice those thoughts, least alone in front of the femme who inspired them. 

_There is a place between your fourth and fifth rib that aches when she looks at you. _

_There is a place between your collarbones that you dig your fingers into, feeling for a pulse that’s much too fast to be your own. _

_ There is a place between her fingers that you fit into quite nicely, and despite everything, you have never known a safety like that before.  
_

* * *

She says your sweating is _disgusting _but she laughs when you flop down onto her legs, heart racing and breath still ragged. 

“Are we-- _Fuck--_ Done?” 

She drags a talon down your leg. “Oh, sweet thing, we haven’t even begun.” 

You have the distinct feeling she’s not talking about the stupid work out regime, but you’re too tired to think it over. “Are we done abusing the human for today?” 

“Mmm, I suppose I have enough data for now. You do look a mess.” She doesn’t say it like an insult. 

You don’t take it as one. “Thanks.” 

Its surprisingly easy to melt against her hard frame, and while she’s warm for being made of metal, she’s cool compared to you. If you were more dramatic and a little less tired you’d be able to come up with a spider and the fly metaphor. 

As it is, you barely have the energy to ask, “What’re we making for dinner?” 

“I was thinking pasta! Carbohydrates are good post workout, right?” 

“Mhm.” You hope she doesn’t expect you to do too much of the work. Making homemade pasta sounds like hell right now. Noodle arms and noodle making don’t work. 

You try to make a joke outta that, but it’s hard to be witty. Or much of anything other than a human blob after one of Airachnid’s obstacle courses. 

She isn’t the type to fill in the silence, but you don’t feel the same pressure to do so yourself either. With anyone else it would make you feel weird and self conscious. 

(You once spent almost an entire mission anxiously telling Arcee about how Arizona makes growing almost everything but cacti a chore, but your saffron is doing a little too well, and has bled into the neighbors’ yard. She eventually told you to shut it, and. You _did not _cry until you were back in the garden) 

Airachnid hums a tuneless little song as she runs her digits over the lines of your body. You’re not sure if she’s cataloguing your muscles or trying to be tender. Either way, you enjoy it. 

Forget about cool down stretches, you like cuddling. 

* * *

“Can I call you Air?” 

Airachnid doesn’t spare you a glance, “Can I call you doll?” 

“Doll.” You roll the word around in your mouth, trying to remember if any past girlfriends (is that what you are? girlfriends?) had used that particular endearment. “Yeah. That’s… that’s okay.” 

“Then you may call me Air, doll.” Now, she looks over at you, with that sharp smile you love so much. “Cybertronians… we usually call one another ‘sweetspark’ or ‘junxies’. But you are no cybertronian.” 

“I am not.” You agree. 

She doesn’t explain whether this is good or bad, but she also doesn’t complain when you make your way over to her lap either. It's tricky business, trying to scale a cybertronian, and Airachnid doesn’t make it any easier. 

She seems to think it’s amusing as you scramble up the control console and then down into her lap. “I have met cybercats who don’t lounge as much as you.” 

“You’re comfy. And… I don’t know if Cybertronians have the same like… needs? But I get touch-starved.” There’s something to be said about love languages and such too, but you’re already feeling sleepy. 

* * *

The Black Forest that is your current home is, apparently, in Germany. Airachnid provides you with a “bite sized” (her words) earpiece that translated the German as fluently as if they were simply speaking English, but she hasn’t managed to find a way for your words to be translated. 

You sort your interactions into “Okay” and “Fuck Off”. “Okay” is, as the name suggests not really bad, but you could do without people patronizingly trying to help you pronounce difficult words or saying your accent is “so cute!” 

“Fuck Off” interactions are usually because some asshole thinks anyone not 100% fluent is free game for snide remarks. You usually just have to school your face into neutrality and _wait._

Airachnid offers to kill them whenever you get back, boiling with barely contained anger. You’ve yet to take her up on that offer, but it's the thought that counts. 

Airachnid is good at calming you down too, in her own way. Currently, she’s rambling in cybertronian as she oh-so-carefully paints your nails. You don’t understand a single word, having left your translator in the kitchen/lab along with the groceries you grabbed. 

It’s a pretty language though, like a birds’ song run through a computer program. It reminds you of 8-bit music. Airachnid’s voice itself is 100% in a minor key, but you couldn’t say which. 

Her voice becomes staccato and clipped when she’s incensed or excited, while sleepy Air is a mess of syllables slurred together. Soft sounds and gentle claws. It’s rare that you get to see the latter, so you try your best to remember those moments. 

(if you could, you’d pluck the blossoms of affection you house in your chest out one by one and press them into a book. Something to remember her by when she gets tired of your organic self) 

Oblivious to where your head’s at, she blows on your nails and admires her handywork. “If only my paint jobs were so simple. Although it is such a small customization.” 

“Next time we can try dying my hair.” 

* * *

Airachnid comes home with a smattering of bullet holes in her armor, and she guides you through helping with repairs with a gentle servo. She’s… quiet, withdrawn, and doesn’t flinch in the slightest despite basically undergoing at-home surgery. 

You’re quiet as well, but for different reasons. You know. You know the kind of damage Arcee’s little blasters leave, and that Airachnid picks fights with her on purpose. 

(and you know how profoundly fucked up it is that your previous crush is mortal goddamn enemies with your current girlfriend, and that’s. That’s all on you, huh? You spun this web for yourself, by yourself) 

(maybe you’ve just got a thing for fighty aliens) 

After you’ve patched up the last of her wounds, she forgoes immediate repainting in favor of pulling you into her arms. “I will catch her.” She says. It lacks the passion she usually has while discussing her plans to hunt Arcee. 

“It’s okay if you don’t. You’re still the best in the galaxy.” You return, gentle as can be. 

Airachnid tucks you under her chin, a rumbling in her chassis. “I am.” 

You let the silence drag on for an indeterminate amount of time, both hesitating and simply relishing in her proximity. She’s warm. 

And she deserves the truth. 

“I used to have a crush on her.” You say, all in a rush. 

“Hm?” 

“Arcee. I used to… have a crush. on her.” You want to assure her, _but I don’t anymore, and even if I do have lingering feelings, I like you more,_ but words are difficult. 

Airachnid doesn’t quite pull away, but she leans back far enough to look you in the eyes. “Is that why you offered yourself as bait?” 

“I… That’s not. I thought if it more as “protecting her and Jack.” but yeah, I guess.” You don’t like feeling so vulnerable, or tripping over your words. 

You do like Airachnid cupping your cheek. Her digits skirt a little too close to you eye to be comfortable, but you know by now it's not a threat. “Does… Is she continuing to cause you distress?” 

A weird question. You’re not quite sure what she’s getting at, but you answer truthfully, “No. I-- I miss all of Team Prime, sometimes, but I like being here. With you. It feels like home, and I mean that literally.” You can’t untangle all your emotions long enough to name them, but you know that. Airachnid, somewhere along the line, became your home. 

* * *

You don’t like when she leaves. The ship is too big and you’re too small to get around effectively. She usually sneaks out while you’re sleeping, although that has gotten significantly more difficult. 

It’s hard to sneak out when the person you’re avoiding is in your bed, after all. 

You clutch at her, shameless in your sleep-drunken state. “Stay.” 

“Aren’t I the clingy one?” She sounds perplexed. 

“We can both be. Clingy G-Fs.” She doesn’t get your jokes, but that doesn’t stop you. 

She mmm’s in agreement, arms wrapping around your frame. “True enough, sweet thing. But I really must go. Those humans barely function without me. Idiots still haven’t managed to trap me.” 

“If they do, I’ll kill em.” You promise. You’ve said that before, mock threatening someone, but the mental image of Airachnid being caught and dissected adds a new level of truth to it. You _would_. 

Airachnid’s chassis vibrates with her answering purr. “I know you would, doll.” 

She waits until you fall back asleep, at least. 

* * *

It’s not a big deal, when it happens. 

Airachnid is pacing her laboratory, your dinner heating up on one of the burners while she mixes something else up in a beaker. Her movements are quick and careful, only halting when she looks over at her datapad. 

She’s always like that, either moving, moving, moving, or dead still. 

You watch her from your perch on an opposite table, and realize you love her. You love this weird spider woman who calls you itty bitty and makes fun of how you sneeze. This murderous femme who once wrapped up a cut on your finger with a delicacy that made you blush and unable to meet her optics. 

_You love her. _

You giggle, in shock, in amazement, and ask, “What are you doing?” 

“I wanted to try that thing from your show? The dessert one?” She struggles to remember human words and phrases. You’re not sure if its because she doesn’t really care, or because she’s got a mess of dozens and dozens of dead languages in her processor. With her “trophies” she’s got smaller prizes, books and things that tell stories of their culture. She likes sharing them with you, showing off. 

“Uh. The one watched like last week?” It's rare that you indulge in sweet stuff. What ‘thing’ is she… “Spherification?” 

She nods. “I’m not sure if how energon reacts with the calcium chloride will change the flavor along with the texture.”

You have... no idea what that means. But do you enjoy watching her bustle around the lab. She’s _cute__,_ and that’s not an adjective you usually use on Airachnid. 

“Hey, Air?” You say, leaning back on your palms. 

“Doll?” She replies. 

_I love you so much it hurts. My whole chest aches and every time you leave I feel like I’m drowning with worry. _

“Can we go hiking after dinner?” 

“Of course! We should visit one of the vineyards. I’d love to see what you’re like intoxicated.” 

She would, wouldn’t she? 

* * *

Out of “Worst Responses To ‘Can I Kiss You?’”, “I’m not gay” is The Worst, but following very close behind is “You can leave”. 

You stare uncomprehendingly at Airachnid, still very much in her arms, straddling her waist. Her mass displaced self is still much stronger than you, but sometimes, like today, she lets you win a sparring match. 

She lays underneath you, one servo on the back of your neck and several more on your waist and upper thighs. It’s hard to pin a femme with six arms. It’s harder still to think through “You can leave” when just a second ago she was giving you fuck-me optics. 

“What?” You finally ask. 

“I-- I brought you here as a prisoner, to rile those _autobots_\--” even now, she can’t say the name without ire-- “I never expected to become… fond of you. If anything, I assumed you’d be a pretty little trophy.” 

“So…?” 

“You are. No longer a prisoner. You can leave.” She says it like that’s it, but your confusion prompts her to explain, “I don’t want you to feel trapped into interfacing with me.” 

“Oh. Oh, you’re, you’re like. No. This isn’t.” Gods, you’re both terrible at this, huh? You think you know what she’s trying to say though. You have a choice. She’s (rather awkwardly) trying to establish consent, boundaries. 

“Air. Airachnid, I haven’t been a prisoner for weeks. I know I can leave, but I want to be here with you. And I want to kiss you.” 

That sharp smile that you love so much makes a reappearance. “Then kiss me.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

* * *

You’re halfway through preparing your morning bagel when two sets of arms wrap themselves around your waist and yank you upwards. The knife goes flying out of your hand. Airachnid’s giggling drowns out the sound of wherever it clattered to the floor. 

“Uh.” 

“Good morning!” She presses her face into the back of your neck. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been so disoriented while trying to make a simple breakfast. “Good morning?” 

“I had. A realization.” She says, one of her servos snaking under your ratty pajama t-shirt. 

You’d probably be more into her uncharacteristic friskiness if she let you eat beforehand. You’re a growing organic! Well. Not _really_, but. You still need to eat. “You hate cream cheese bagels?” 

“No. Well, yes.” Her brief confusion doesn’t temper her excitement in the slightest, “I also realized that _I stole you!”_

“You what.” 

“Arcee. I stole my dearest rival’s little organic. That’s almost _better_ than finally catching her.” She sounds pleased as punch. “And in doing so, I ended up with… _you_.” 

_Oh._You laugh. “Does that sweeten the deal?” 

“More than I can express in your rudimentary language.” 

* * *

Airachnid is many things, and none of them are messy. She’s all precision and perfection in the lab or during training, not a misstep to be seen. Each movement, even her restless pacing, is exacting. 

But the femme does not know how to kiss humans. 

Thankfully, you’re not one to shy away just because your girlfriend leaves you with lips that taste of copper and stay sore for a day and a half afterwards. 

“Gentle.” You remind her, smiling. 

She groans and pulls away. “I’m going to ask that sorry excuse for a physician for a holoform mod.” 

Ratchet? Or Knock Out? KO would probably make more sense. “I don't think that’s the issue but if you want to, sure.” You wedge your fingers between the transformation seams on the curve of her hips, and she shudders. “That good?” 

“Mhm. Careful, doll.” 

You giggle. “Or what?” 

“Or you won’t be able to walk in the morning, and I’ll brand your soft little frame with my fangs.” She presses your hips down, and its. It's not a _great _angle but something about even just the idea of grinding on Airachnid’s thigh sets you ablaze. 

You have to take a moment and calm yourself before asking, “Is that a threat, or a promise?” 

Her optics brighten with excitement. That electric red that once made your heart rate skyrocket now does so for a very different reason. “It’s both!” She says, the affection in her voice dripping like venom. 

* * *

You don’t really wonder about the autobots anymore. 

But sometimes Airachnid still hisses about her hatred of Arcee, and you can't help but try to imagine their reactions to how you can kiss away the divot between her optics and the way she dotes over you in her weird ways. 

* * *

You wake up to kisses and servos trailing up your sides. Her rumbling engine is loud enough muffle the ambient sounds of the ship, but can’t cover your gasping breaths. 

Her pointy little fangs scrape the curve of your shoulder, not breaking skin that you can feel, but leaving red hot scratches (you think maybe you get all those weird vampire fangirls now). “Good morning, doll.” 

“Yes, it is.” You answer. 

Airachnid hums in return. “You were talking in your sleep.” 

And _of course_ she was listening. “You’re such a creep.” You laugh. 

“You sounded… amorous.” She says. “Do I really occupy even your sleeping mind?” She’s teasing, but her ultra bright optics tell you she’s genuinely pleased by this revelation. 

“Creeeeep.” 

“You love me.” She crows. “You _love_ me, and you _want me_.” 

You reach up for her face, smiling at her ridiculousness. “I tell you that when I’m awake too.” 

“Conscious minds can lie.” She says. “Your subconscious doesn’t.” 

That’s not… quite true. But Airachnid’s grasp of human psychology is shaky at best. “Sometimes my subconscious is a bitch.” Like the nightmares. You could do without those. 

She laughs as she kisses you, fangs pressing clumsily against your lips. 

**Author's Note:**

> rational brain: Airachnid plays into the predatory lesbian trope so maybe we--  
lesbian brain: spooky spider femme h o t 
> 
> Anyways!! Funfacts!!! -idk if i executed this properly but the way they court each is purposefully "out of order" bc its less of a line and more a web. i just liked that idea so. messy lesbians  
-spherifying is a real thing, you can make basically any liquid into an egg yolky/roe consistency. cooking is fun  
-Airachnid originally "doted on" reader to keep a closer optic on them but she rly does enjoy preparing weird human food  
-Airachnid hasnt had a partner in a loooong time, which is partially why she's so awkward. its also that she's bad w emotions and unsure how to court a human  
-reader is Sleepy All The Time and Air thinks its v cute  
-what are the autobots doing, you ask? fuck if i know.


End file.
